


Putting Down Roots

by scatteringmyashes



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Character, Asexual Soren, Family Drama, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, asexual Ike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: An AU where Ike doesn't leave Tellius and Soren is forced to confront the fact that he's the son of Ashnard and Almedha. Featuring: a great deal of introspection, repressed feelings, and more family problems than any one person should ever have to deal with."There are few things stranger, Soren decides, than realizing that you are the son of a man who single-handedly destroyed his country and a woman who is so old that even the herons of Serenes seem young in comparison."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was obsessed with Fire Emblem ages ago, like over ten years ago, which incidentally is when I played POR/RD and then I got a new phone and downloaded Fire Emblem Heroes and... the rest is history? 
> 
> Anyways, I've re-familiarized myself as much as I can with the games but if anything is particularly odd and catches your attention, please let me know. This is the first fic I've written for this ship in a very, very long time. 
> 
> Content Warnings: At several points, Soren dissociates and/or has an anxiety/panic attack. These are described in detail. There are also mentions of past self-harm and suicidal ideation. His relationship and dependence on Ike can also be seen as unhealthy, but not more so than in canon. Take care of yourself!

There are few things stranger, Soren decides, than realizing that you are the son of a man who single-handedly destroyed his country and a woman who is so old that even the herons of Serenes seem young in comparison. With this realization comes several other realizations, of course, because having merely one life-changing moment after defeating an actual goddess and seeing your best — only — friend talking to the most powerful people on the continent like they’re old friends isn't enough. 

First, Soren realizes that he could have been a prince. It is ridiculous that such a whimsical thought comes to mind, but it does. He could have grown up in beautiful comfort, still learning to read and write at a young age but not being beaten and starved for his failures. He could be used to retainers granting his every wish and the finest tomes, parchment, and quills being gifted to him by loyal and fearful vassals. He could have learned politics alongside magic and maybe he would even be able to talk to others without a clawing sense of dread consuming him. 

He could never have known what it was like to feel starvation in every bone nor what being cold really, truly meant. He could be ignorant to the way orphans are treated, perhaps would still hate laguz but for different reasons, could be spoken to by other sages out of respect and fear rather than political mechanizations. 

Maybe Soren would know what Ike meant when he said things like “family is more important than anything” during the darkest part of a war or “I hate them but they’re family” when Shinon and Gatrie do something truly stupid. Maybe Soren would know what it was like to have a mother who loved him and a father who — well, Ashnard never really loved anyone. But someone, surely, would have.

But those are thoughts of a child and Soren, who has many faults that many people would be more than happy to expose and prod, is not a child. And he is no fool to think that a Branded child of even Mad King Ashnard would have any kind of privilege. 

So he does not dwell on those thoughts long. 

The second understanding, however, is that he could still be a prince. And what kind of sick joke is that, that he could go from being a nobody, a sick Parentless who is an affront to the Goddess — though what does that even mean, now that the Goddess is gone? — to someone who can claim blood ties to two thrones of Tellius. The dragons are desperate, after all, perhaps even desperate enough to allow him into their fold. And he is not a starving child, he is a veteran of two of the bloodiest wars in history and he has the favor of Tellius’s hero — though how deep that favor goes, few know. 

Except Soren knows that Ike would not be suited or allowed into the courts of Goldoa and Soren is somehow less suited and more at the same time. So as the festivities continue, Soren stays by Ike’s side and does not go to the dragons, though his eyes do glance at them many times. 

He is certain that Almedha knows. Their conversation — he has poured over it for hours, ever since the army gathered to leave Begnion except Ike and the mercenaries were dragged into these stupid parties — made that clear enough. How she learned, he is less sure, but he suspects outside influence. Soren knows that Kurthnaga must also be aware of his sister’s child. He is less certain as to who else knows. Pelleas must, because between the scattered conversations the two have had there is little they have talked of that is not of Spirit Charmers or ancestry. Soren itches to track him down during the celebrations, to pull him aside and demand more answers, but the few times the former King of Daein is around he is always close to Micaiah and that is one person whom Soren never wishes to see again. 

It is not her fault, Soren knows, that all this is happening and has happened. She is not responsible for the destruction of the fragile peace Ike worked so hard for. But Soren, for all his ability to strategize and plan, has never been the most logical of people. Not when it comes to people. They have a way of surprising him. 

Besides those people however, Soren is uncertain who is aware of his heritage. He can eliminate some — Ike is blissfully unaware, because otherwise he would no doubt ask Soren a hundred questions that would be offensive coming from anyone else but were only sweet and well-intentioned coming from Ike. None of the other laguz monarchs seem like they know, because they still ignore him unless they must talk to him. Except for Skrimir, but admittedly Soren has tried to avoid talking to him and nothing has come of it, so that is mostly just how the stubborn lion is. 

“This is worse than last time,” Ike says one night. He is stripped down to a soft dark blue tunic and a pair of trousers that have no holes nor patches. His hair has fallen across his face, headband on the bedside table. He is somehow more exhausted from several hours of politics, well-wishes, and toasting to other people and nations, than he ever was during two wars. 

And yet Soren has never seen him more handsome, more beautiful. 

“It will be over in the next few days. The laguz are ready to depart — if it were not for the necessity to secure signatures for treaties immediately, I have no doubt that the bird tribe would have left as soon as the fighting was done.” Soren can hardly blame them. They have lost much to both beorc and their own kind. That kind of damage takes nothing more than time to heal, but at least the laguz have plenty of that. 

“How long do you think Elincia will stay?” Ike asks. 

Soren shrugs. He carefully sets his folded robes aside, his boots lined up against the foot of the bed. If he and Ike were to ever be attacked in the night, it would take less than six seconds for them both to be at fighting capacity. Ike keeps ragnell in its sheath with the rest of his armor, away from their bed, but there is a shortsword close by. Soren leaves a wind tome beside him every night. Some habit die hard. Others are built out of a hesitation to die. Soren knows a great deal about those. 

“I just want to be home,” Ike admits. He opens his arms as Soren gets in the bed. It is frightfully easy to press himself against Ike, to put himself so close to another. It may be warmer than it should be in the castle, the stones enchanted no doubt, but it is still cold for someone who cannot keep full meals down even after all this time. Despite the best efforts of practically every Greil Mercenary — some not included, but Soren never liked Shinon anyway — Soren has never weighed more than seven stone. 

Ike reached ten stone by the time he was eighteen but Soren, who is most likely older if he does some creative calculations, will probably never reach that. It doesn't help that Ike grew almost a foot between the two wars — and gained just as much weight as one would expect. Soren still remembers the nightmare of having to calculate the extra costs of Ike, Rolf, and Boyd all growing at ridiculous rates not to mention how Mist refused to mend all their ripped clothes. The boys — because they had been boys at the time — learned how to sew quickly after that. 

But there are benefits to sleeping with someone so large and that is that Ike is never cold. He also does not protest when Soren bundles up in the covers and sticks his cold feet — even wrapped they still take on a sickly blue hue when it gets cold enough — between Ike’s legs. 

Ike chuckles and wraps his arms around Soren. He smells of sword oil and the spices used on meat cuts that the mercenaries could never afford and faintly of the perfume that the ladies of the court wear and a little bit of sweat, because after all this is Ike and he is still a rough mercenary born in a backwater village and raised to use a sword and walk alongside carts, not ride in carriages. But underneath all that is just Ike, pure and simple, and Soren is unafraid of holding Ike back and letting himself breathe. Letting himself be, just be, in a way that is harder than any spell or any stave. 

“I will seen if we can excuse you from more of these… events. You are not a lord nor are you royalty. In terms of your political power, you have none — officially at least. You are, frankly, a general thrust into the position because there were no other candidates.” Soren speaks frankly and he knows that Ike is unoffended. 

Ike chuckles and kisses the top of Soren's head. Wrapped together, he cannot reach the ugly red mark on Soren’s forehead. Ike once asked if it made Soren uncomfortable when it was touched. Honestly, Soren does not know. He spent so long hating it and lying about it that the only reason he wears it visibly is because hiding if would be even more foreign. 

“You sure know how to keep me from letting this all go to my head,” Ike says. 

“You do that yourself. Any other man would have accepted lordship three years ago.” Lordship and the hand of Queen Elincia, if he were only to ask for it. Soren still remembers the bitterness that had seeped into him during the final days of the war, when it was clear they would win and the only question was who would go with the Queen and who would not. 

If Ike had married Elincia, no one would have been too surprised. Mist, perhaps, who knows that Ike's heart has belonged to a surly wind mage ever since the boys were fifteen. And maybe Elincia herself, who was clever enough to see that Ike had given his heart to someone else even if she didn't quite know who. Soren would be offended at her guess that it was Titania or Mia or perhaps even Ranulf if those ideas weren't so ridiculous. Ike has eyes only for one person and that is Soren — for better or worse. 

Because the third thing Soren knows is that no matter his best attempts, his parentage will cause problems for him. There is no force on Tellius that can stop him from being half dragon, that can allow him to show the passage of time like everyone else. And while Almedha may be content to let him walk away now, will she always? What can Soren do to stop her from finding him and the mercenaries, to make him speak to her or bring him back to Goldoa? And if she tries anything, Ike will no doubt get involved. Previously, Soren would call it folly to stand against a dragon but Ike has faced down a goddess and lived. A dragon is nothing after that. 

But that does not stop Soren from lying in Ike’s arms and fearing what will happen next. The war is over but it does not feel like he has won. 

#

“Do you think I should wear the blue or the green?” Ike asks one day, holding up two tunics. One is a vibrant blue, not quite bright enough to match his eyes but still stunning, gold embroidery marking it as costing more than Ike’s entire wardrobe. The other is green, light like spring leaves, a smattering of teal thread winding its way through the garment. Neither are Ike’s. They have been provided by Begnion and her sudden generosity, as if nice gifts and warm beds are enough to forgive the nation’s role in the last few conflicts. 

Still, Soren must hand it to whoever picked the tunics. They know Ike well enough to avoid ostentatious displays of wealth and that he looks best in blue and green. But Soren is biased so he points to the blue tunic even as he finishes dressing himself.

“Thanks. Still think I should take Boyd’s advice and go in my usual armor.” Regardless, Ike shucks his nightshirt and pulls on the tunic. 

Soren snorts. “And risk offending half the nobility? Hardly a wise course of action.” 

“You don't care what they think.”

“I am not the hero who has led two armies in war against forces that should have crushed him. If I wear my robes, everyone overlooks me. If you wear your armor, people think you do not care for the future of Tellius.” It is an unfortunate truth. Soren could care less, except Ike lives on Tellius and in order for Ike to keep living there must be peace. If Soren works towards ending wars, towards building treaties for better trade and open borders, it is only because it is for Ike’s benefit. 

“I do care. I just would rather wear my own clothes when I have to sit in meetings and pretend I know what a tariff is or why the border should be on the west side of the river and not the east,” Ike complains. 

That, too, is a problem. Ike cares about many things, too many in fact. It is one of the things Soren hates about him, but it is also the reason Soren loves him. If Ike were like other beorc, if he were cruel and selfish and rude, then Soren would have left the mercenaries long before Daein invaded Crimea. But Ike is not and so Soren remains. 

“I know.” Soren finishes dressing, the wrappings under his robes helping keep the cold out and his wrists covered. It has been almost a decade since he last hurt himself, but the scars remain. Heal staves can only act after a certain amount of time and Soren is not vain enough to use a better one. Nor does he bother with creams and other home remedies that could help. He hides them because people already stare and he does not want to give them more of a reason. 

Ike has seen them all — and more. And yet he remains. 

“Do you need help?” Soren asks. Ike is struggling to fasten the buttons on his tunic. His hands are too large for the delicate buttons and it is clear from his hesitation, his mounting frustration, that he fears breaking one of them. The gold buttons are not real gold — or perhaps they are because they are in Begnion after all — but they are worth more than the ones the mercenaries use. 

“Please.” Ike only has to say the word and Soren goes to him, pushing his hands aside and slipping each button into its place. 

The two are silent as Soren finds one of Ike’s boots under the bed — kicked there carelessly the previous night — and as Ike gently ties Soren’s hair back. They need no words and Soren slips into his boots and grabs his tome as Ike pulls his belt tight around his waist, ragnell hanging from his back like in the war. He has never drawn it in the castle, though many have asked, but he keeps it as if he is not recognizable enough. As if his large stature, the way he carries himself, the fact that every laguz and beorc leader who sees him immediately greets him, was not enough. As if the shadow that follows him in the shape of a small tactician was not enough. 

“Ready to face the day?” Ike asks. 

“If the alternative is returning to the tower to fight a goddess… well, I think we could defeat her,” Soren replies.

“Just the two of us?” Ike raises an eyebrow, fussing over the clasp on Soren’s cloak. He has to bend down to do this. If Soren ever has to help Ike with the same, he has to stand on the tips of his toes. Perhaps some find the height difference endearing in their own relationships, but it merely inconveniences Soren and worries Ike. Soren is not delicate but Ike — he is rough and he is brash and he is dangerous. Not stupid. He could break Soren in so many ways. 

And Soren would let him, because nothing would break him more than the idea of hurting Ike. 

“We have faced worse,” Soren points out. A small smile tugs on his lips. Ike laughs, kisses him, and squeezes his hand. Then they leave the room. 

#

The least believable part of all this is not the fact that no one else has made the connection between the dragon royal family — who remain in Begnion to ensure no treaty cuts them out, as far as Soren can tell, though it is clear they wish to return home only less than the herons and their entourage — and Ike’s shadow. Perhaps it is a matter of circumstance. Soren has had plenty of time to think of it and every time he sees a dragon, he cannot help but see similarities. 

The hair is the most obvious. Soren has dark green hair, much darker than his relatives — and goddess that is strange to think of, having family — but their complexes are similar. He and Kurthnaga have the same slight build, the same eyes. He and Almedha — because he cannot call her mother no matter how true that may be — both frown the same way. They both carry themselves the same. And what does that say about her, that her steps are the same as a man abused and broken and abandoned? 

What does it say about Soren, that his steps are the same as a would-be queen who betrayed her family and country for a mad man she fell in love with? 

It doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter. 

“What's on your mind besides your books?” Mia asks. She sits across from him in the hall, the mercenaries all sequestered away from the nobility and people they might offend with their lack of manners and disdain for using three different forks during a single meal. Considering Boyd and Gatrie are arm wrestling while Shinon provides running commentary, Soren can't fault whoever made the seating arrangement. 

But Ike is sitting with Elincia, listening to Micaiah talk about something important, and Soren is not. 

And yes, he is bitter about it. 

“Soren? Are you there?” Mia goes to knock on his head and it is a testament to how much Soren has changed that he lets her, though he glares at her nonetheless. “Aha, there you are. I was wondering where you had gone off.” Her casual smile drops into an almost mocking frown. “Are you sad that Ike isn’t here? You know he’d be sitting here if he could.” 

It takes a great strength to restrain himself, because Mia doesn’t know what she’s doing, and in that time Soren realizes she isn’t mocking him at all. She’s genuinely concerned and that’s more difficult, really, to understand. He clenches and unclenches his fists. They’re in his lap, his food almost untouched. It’s rich, warm, and hasn’t been hit by cold snaps or rats. Naturally, it’s harder to eat than anything else he’s had before him, and he’s literally dug through pig troughs before.

“I am merely wondering what they could be discussing now of all times,” Soren lies. Well, it isn’t a full lie. He doesn’t quite care about politics but he cares about Ike and Ike cares about a lot of things so, by proxy, Soren must care about those things too. It’s exhausting, that’s what it is, and he has no idea how Ike does it. 

“Stupid noble stuff,” Shinon remarks. “Gatrie, you can beat this ass in a heartbeat. Put your fucking back in it.” Even though he’s had as much to drink as Gatrie and Boyd together, Shinon is hardly even swaying. His eyes are a little unfocused but he’s still more observant than half the idiots Soren knows, which is just about the only reason Soren tolerates his company. 

Well that and the fact that he once shot three people in the head who were trying to sneak up on Ike and take him out. Soren begrudgingly raised Shinon’s alcohol ration that week. Shinon kept his mouth shut for a solid day. It was a win-win situation. 

“Don’t worry about it, Soren,” Mist says. She squeezed his shoulder, perhaps one of three people who had the bravery to do that. “I’m sure my brother would much rather be sitting with us. He doesn’t like politics or ruling or anything like that.” She frowns. “I’m surprised he’s stayed here so long, actually.” 

Something tightened in Soren’s chest. He ignores it.

“Yeah, remember after the Mad King’s War? We were at the capital for what — two days? And then we left.” Mia shrugs, pulling a platter of chicken towards her. “I guess this is a bigger deal.” 

“By the time we get back, the fort is gonna need repairs again.” Mist groans. “If I have to get cobwebs out of my room again—” 

“I’ll help you,” Boyd says. “Fuck!” He winces as Gatrie slams his fist onto the table. The blond begins cheering, grabbing his tankard and frowning when he realizes it’s empty. Shinon has a particularly innocent look on his face that fools a grand total of nobody except Gatrie, who simply flags down a serving girl and promptly begins flirting, all thoughts of drink gone. 

Mist chides Boyd for being so rough while Rhys watches, a small smile on his face. Soren realizes he was glaring at the bishop and looked away, his eyes falling on Ike.

It seems like conversation has turned from politics because now all eyes on the main table are on Ike as he waves his arms, mouth moving as he tells some riveting story. Soren winces when he notices that Ike even has the attention of the Goldoan monarchs — or what’s left of the royal family at least — who are watching him with varying levels of interest. Kurthnaga does nothing to hide his fascinated stare, reacting in a way far too similar to Elincia for Soren to be all that comfortable. Almedha is much more closed off but she is clearly taking note. She hasn’t eaten a bite since Soren began watching and he wonders if she’s eaten at all — her plate looks almost as full as his. 

She turns and looks at Soren and if he were holding something, he would have dropped it. 

A strange sensation, cold filling his body and a lead bar weighing him down in his stomach, hits Soren. He realizes he’s trembling even though he looks away, his vision unfocused. The talking around him, the noise of plates clattering and people chewing and drinking and laughter — it’s too much. He feels cold in his fingers but warm in his head and there’s something pounding, like a task he’s forgotten, and he finds himself standing. 

His knee knocks into the table, almost spilling several drinks, but he can’t bring himself to say anything as he turns to leave the hall. Someone calls his name but it isn’t Ike and he doesn’t look back. He flees, feeling two red eyes piercing through him all the meanwhile. 

Soren walks through the halls, ignored by laguz and beorc alike, his body moving without him. He feels like he is weighed down by a million stones but his head is as light as air. Briefly, he is reminded of the single time Ike convinced him to let one of the wyvern riders take him up in the air — he doesn’t remember their name. The air was thin and every breath had felt like a thousand and when he landed, he promptly threw up at Ike’s feet. It was humiliating to say the least but Ike had apologized, as if it were his fault that Soren was so frail and weak and incapable of keeping it together without him. 

Regardless, Soren is barely able to put his feet in front of him and he can’t even focus enough to figure out where he’s going. Instinctually, he would assume he is walking towards his shared room with Ike or the library, both places he finds comfort in. But instead he finds himself shivering as the cold hits him, knocking him out of his fugue state. 

He looks around, blinking and squinting against the sudden sunlight. It reflects off the snowfall, blinding for a moment. Soren tugs his robes around him a little tighter. He’s hardly wearing the appropriate attire for a long walk through the courtyard that lays in front of him, but it isn’t the Daein winter and the warmth of the interior is just a few steps away. Besides, the cold is helping his heart slow, his vision returning to normal, air entering his body properly again. And there is nothing stopping him from sitting by himself. 

So Soren goes and trudges through the snow, finding a small stone bench and clearing it off. It’s wet when he sits but he holds back a shiver and does not move. 

The snow is beautiful to most people, but Soren has never been good at appreciating nature. He sees a brilliant sunset and just thinks about how it is more dangerous at night. A rushing river is an obstacle to move past. Tall trees hide all sorts of creatures that would rather eat Soren than help him. Snow is cold, a silent killer that soaks into your bones and infects them with a chill that won't pass no matter how many blankets are founds or how close to a fire you draw. 

Soren swallows and looks down at his boots. The leather is worn but sturdy and his feet are still dry, but they are not warm. The snow is piled around his feet. It is not snowing right now, but the sun is too weak to chase it away even in the southern part of Tellius. He has never willingly sat in the snow by himself. He's not quite sure what to make of it. 

“Hello. Do you mind if I sit with you?” A woman’s voice asks. Soren turns and should be surprised that it's Titania, but he isn't. He shrugs and shuffles over a little. The bench is almost too small to hold both of them, but they manage. Soren may not like physical touch but he is practical and a mercenary. He would not be in this profession if he could not handle huddling together for warmth or making due with smaller spaces than the party deserves. 

The two sit in silence for a while. Titania is wearing a thick coat and long trousers that are nicer than anything Soren has seen her in previously. Her hair is braided and thrown over one shoulder but it gleams in the light and not from blood or sweat. Oils, perhaps, found in the baths to help clean and make one smell less like dirty mercenaries. But her nails are still jagged, palms still rough, and there are small scars across her face and arms and elsewhere. As much as Begnion is trying, it cannot erase the lowly past of its heroes. Small wonder, then, that Ike is the only one allowed at the head tables. He is hardly any better but at least he has charm and the accolades of being a winning general.

Soren wonders, briefly, what it would be like if Greil were still alive and the one receiving this praise. He abandons that line of thought after remember, embarrassingly late, that Ike was raised by Greil. That Greil turned away from the honor of being one of the Mad King’s head generals and instead decided to barely break even as a nobody in Gallia. The last place someone would look for a Daein citizen. 

The only thing that would change would be that Ike would be sitting with Soren and the others, complaining about how long they were holed up in the castle and how there would be so many repairs to the fort once they returned. For some reason, that does make Soren feel better. 

He wonders if that makes him a bad person. 

He decides he doesn't care. 

“You have been awfully quiet this week,” Titania says, as if Soren is ever talkative off the battlefield. When it comes to strategy, Soren is the last to back down. He will prove he is right and after one war, most people shut up when he spoke. After this one, he wonders if his reputation or proximity to Ike is what keeps people away from asking for his mentorship. “If it were up to you, where would the mercenaries be?” 

Back in Crimea, fixing the stupid fort and dragging Shinon and Gatrie back from drinking at the local village every other night. Oscar would be cooking as best he can with limited supplies. Boyd would be awkwardly courting Mist while trying not to attract Ike’s attention, as if Mist couldn't handle herself. Soren would want to tear his hair out when Ike gave half their supplies away to a starving farmer and then come up with some creative accounting to make it work. 

Titania is smiling even as she watches Soren. She knows what he is thinking. So Soren doesn't reply. He scowls and looks out into the courtyard. 

It's nice in a pretentious, Begnion way. There is a fountain in the center, still stone carved in an effigy to some old empress. Soren doesn't recognize her, but Begnion royalty is not his speciality. The cobblestones are straight and the trees must look beautiful when they are in bloom. Where Titania and Soren are sitting, a tree would offer shade in the spring and summer. Now it threatens to drop an icicle on their heads. 

It would be truly ironic to go through two wars without serious injury, only to die from a piece of ice hitting him while he sits in a courtyard. 

Soren doesn't move. 

“Why are you here?” Soren asks Titania, in lieu of any other conversation. Some part of him doesn't mind the silence, but that is overrun by his general dislike of unforeseen company. Titania is not a stranger — she always tried to be a mentor to him, but he was not open to that and now it is too late and pointless — but that doesn't mean he wants her there. 

At the very least, Soren is willing to entertain her, unlike other people he could think of. 

“You seemed upset. I wanted to see if you needed anything.” Titania was usually the one who would find Soren after he marched off, usually after a shouting match with Shinon or the rare occasion when he got upset with Ike. Of course, Ike usually followed soon after, but when Soren wasn't in his room or in the fort’s small library then Ike resorted to running around until he found Soren. Titania was smarter and much better at realizing when Soren was hidden in his room but out of sight or when he took to climbing the weeping willow by the brook. 

That didn't mean Soren ever talked to her, but she didn't expect that and for that he was grateful. Things changed, though, and Soren is no longer a boy who doesn't trust anyone who isn't named Ike. 

“I want to leave this place,” Soren says. 

“But you don't think we will? Or you think it is taking to long?” 

“Both.” Soren can feel Titania’s question. He sighs. “Even when we leave, we will always be known as the mercenaries who helped in both wars — if they don't just rename us Ike’s Mercenaries. I will not be surprised if someone tries.” 

“Ike won't let them.” The _I won't let them_ is left unsaid but Soren understands. “Things will return to normal eventually, Soren. Who knows, maybe things will even get better.” Titania gives him a small smile. Soren doesn't return it, but she doesn't expect him to. “Have you been this worried about the future? You know nothing will happen to change what Ike thinks of you.” It is too close to the truth and Soren shifts uncomfortably. 

“Ike has many other things to concern him. He has had half a dozen marriage offers today, and that is not counting those asking again.” Soren intercepts the ones that are sent via letter and he glares at whoever as the gall to ask in person. The ladies — and the more bold lords, who guess past failures are due to gender and not because Ike is _taken_ — are incessant but growing more clever. Ike, at least, knows better than to say yes to anyone he doesn't know if Soren is not there. Thankfully too, because otherwise he'd already be betrothed to half of the beorc present. 

Titania laughs. “He won't accept any of them and you and I both know it. Ike couldn't stand having to be a lord. He'd take one look at the attire and run!” 

Soren cracks a smile. They both remember Ike turning Elincia down. She's right — there is no chance that Ike will take anyone else up on their offer. 

That's not what worries Soren, but Titania doesn't know that. 

“If you're worried about your place here, know that short of Ike throwing you out, you'll always have a home with us.” Titania pauses. “I know that none of us will ever be as close to you as he is but — we consider you family. All of us.” 

“Even Shinon?” 

Again, Titania laughs. “Okay, maybe not all of us. But most of us.” She raises an arm and, slowly, wraps it around Soren’s shoulders. He realizes how cold it is and he shivers violently, pressed up against her. Soren knows he's tense and does nothing to stop himself. Even if Titania is — well, he doesn't trust anyone but that doesn't mean he thinks everyone is untrustworthy — reliable and unlikely to decide to kill him now. “Soren. You always have a place here.” 

She doesn't know he's Branded. She doesn't know that he is the son of Ashnard and Almedha. But in that moment, it's enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I'm so glad that people are liking the story so far??? It's been really great writing this, I'd honestly forgotten how much I loved this ship. 
> 
> This chapter is a lot more IkeSoren heavy than the last and has a little less introspection so. Yay?

They stay in Begnion much longer than Soren wanted, but when they do leave they leave early in the morning to try to avoid the fanfare that seems to constantly accompany Ike. It works, except some people never sleep and that is how Soren finds himself listing off supplies while watching Almedha out of the corners of his eyes. 

She doesn't come out of the castle, a dark shadow lurking between two flickering torches. Soren reads off the list while Titania confirms they have everything packed, careful to keep his interest in Almedha concealed. It doesn’t seem like anyone else has noticed, or at the very least they aren’t pointing her out. 

Still, Soren does not relax until the convoy is off and on the road. 

“Ready to go back and fix a million holes and dust every room?” Ike asks, riding next to Soren. He is not a natural on horseback, but he has been part of so many parades at this point that he has picked it up. Soren, on the other hand, would be walking except he'd quickly be left behind by everyone else and he refuses to sit in the caravan while Ike is not. 

Soren snorts. “The fort will be in acceptable condition when we return. And we both know it won't take me an hour to dust.” It has taken him a few years, but he has perfected a spell that can clear a room of dust in a minute. As long as there are no trinkets or delicate objects, he can take care of dust and dirt better than Mist and Rolf on a cleaning tear. 

“It'll be nice to be home,” Ike continues, deciding not to pursue the cleaning conversation. “I can't believe that we’ve only been gone for six months. It feels like longer.” 

There isn't a good way to say that Soren has never left home, because home is where Ike is, so he doesn't say anything. 

“What's the first thing you're going to do when we get back?” Ike barrels on, not expecting an answer. Soren appreciates that. Ike knows when Soren wants to talk and when he just wants someone else to talk, to fill the empty space and make him feel a little less alone. “I think I'm going to take a nap. A real, good nap. Don't give me that look! You know I never sleep as well anywhere that's not home.” 

“You slept well enough last night,” Soren comments. He remembers staying awake, staring at the wall while Ike’s warm breath curled up against his neck. 

“Yeah, but that's different. You were there.” Ike frowns. Ahead of them, Oscar is talking with one of the Crimean knights — Geoffrey? — with blue hair. Soren can't hear them but he can guess what they're discussing. Rolf is no boy and Boyd is old enough to chafe under his older brother’s control. If Oscar sticks around for another year, Soren will be surprised. 

Soren doesn't bring it up. Ike has enough on his mind. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Ike asks, tone implying that he knows the answer. 

“I am fine. I ate,” Soren reminds him. 

“I know. I was there making sure you remembered. But you didn't answer my question.” 

A moment. Soren sighs and shakes his head. Ike’s frown grows a little deeper. 

“You need to take care of yourself, Soren.” 

“I am. It is nothing — a few nights are nothing.” Soren doesn't mention how he was too busy thinking about what could happen, imagining Almedha protesting as he left or perhaps Pelleas demanding Soren’s presence. It's irrational but people are — people are irrational. They do things they shouldn't for reasons that don't make sense. 

“Wait, nights? How long has this been going on?” Ike looks genuinely concerned, probably because the last time something bothered Soren this much it was when Soren admitted he was Branded. 

Soren hasn't slept well since Almedha caught his gaze. But he isn't going to tell Ike that. 

“It is fine, Ike.” 

And Soren continues to convince Ike of this up until they get back to the fort, which is just as ruined as everyone thought it would be and means that all the effort must be put towards rebuilding it, not bothering Soren about how much sleep he's gotten. It's a welcome respite from Ike’s questions, because as much as Soren appreciates him it still can be stifling and irritating at times. 

He doesn't expect, deep in the heart of winter, when the fort is still halfway between bearable and depressing, for Ike to murmur in his ear as they hold each other close — 

“Run away with me.” 

Soren freezes. He wonders, briefly, if Ike is still awake or if this is the product of a dream. But Ike shifts and swallows, a soft laugh escaping his throat. 

“It — that sounded stupid. But I mean it. Leave with me.” Ike is lying on his back, not looking at Soren as he speeds up. “I just — how many more meetings are there going to be? How many more coronations, weddings, fancy events where they want me to dress up like a lord? How many more times are they going to ask me to stop their wars? I'm — I'm twenty, Soren, and I'm the most well-known person on Tellius. I don't want this. I don't.” 

There is only one answer Soren can give him. 

“Then we will leave.” He hesitates. “Not in the winter. After. When the ice has cleared and we can walk and camp on the side of the road without freezing.” It isn't what Ike wants to hear, but he agrees. It isn't what Soren wants to say, but he does because it is what is best for Ike. So they remain and life goes on for another season. 

Slowly, the Greil Mercenaries recover. They survive winter, in no small part thanks to the jobs Elincia sends their way. In fact, in the first weeks of spring they're called to the capital to help provide security for her official fourth year as queen and, some speculate, an announcement as to her fiance. Soren thinks the latter is a bunch of propaganda sent out to bolster a tired citizenry, but he can appreciate a good celebration as a form of encouraging happiness and recovery from war. 

He's only sour because of two things, really. 

One, he knows Oscar will announce his departure from the Mercenaries. Ike, Soren, Titania, and his brothers already know. This of course means Mist and Rhys knows and there's half a chance Mia does as well. Shinon and Gatrie will complain, but of the two of them Gatrie will really be the only one who misses him. Soren understands why Oscar is leaving, but it does mean the loss of a capable fighter and one of their two cavalry units, which is a shame. 

Two, every royal family in Tellius has been invited to this event. Under the guise of security, Soren was able to see a list. The dragons are coming. He regrets not leaving with Ike in the dead of winter. 

The Mercenaries have a large suite to themselves and, with a few exceptions, they all find themselves lounging in the front room as much as possible. 

“Soren, are you really wearing those to the party?” Mist asks. She is dressed in a sensible but beautiful dress, a warm jacket half-hiding the staff strapped to her back. It is warming up, but Soren would not consider it spring quite yet. Everyone else, bolstered by hope, disagrees and claims that the first thaw clearly means there won't be any other cold snaps or snowstorms. There is a reason Soren is the tactician, though. “You've been wearing that all winter! You need to get something nice. It's a party after all.” 

“We are here to provide security for the Queen and—” 

“Yada, yada, yada, we know Soren,” Mia teases. “But we also are guests of the esteemed Queen. We are literally being paid to celebrate her. Lighten up. Get yourself some dress robes. Everyone is going to be at the height of fashion and you're going to look like someone that took one too many wrong turns.” 

Soren looks down at his robes. It is true they are a bit old, but they are warm and functional. He looks at Ike, who barely polished his nice armor for this. If anyone will be on his side, it's Ike. 

“You haven't gotten new robes in almost a year,” Ike points out. Soren gives him a look that reads _traitor_ and Ike laughs. “I'll go with you tomorrow. We can make it a trip. I need a few things anyway.” 

Soren bites back a hundred comments about how the vendors will hike up their prices or how Elincia could surely get them whatever they need or how nonsensical it is to buy robes for an event that he will go to only once. Instead he sighs and nods. 

“Good. You deserve to wear something nice. Treat yourself after a good day's work,” Ike says, completely unaware that his father said that thousands of times. 

Titania stiffens in her seat and even Soren feels uncomfortable. With blue hair, Ike will never truly look like his father, but that doesn't mean he cannot look at all like his father. It is ironic, really, that Ike has spent so long trying to be like his father that he doesn’t even realize how close he’s come to it. 

Regardless, Soren finds himself dragged out of the castle the next morning. Ike has a sack of gold that’s probably Soren’s, orders from no less than Mist herself to not come back until Soren has a shiny new pair of robes and possibly a whole new style — Soren wasn’t allowed in the room for that conversation — and all day to spend with his tactician. It is, somehow, not the worst but it also is not what Soren would call “enjoyable” or even “mildly acceptable.” 

As he thought, the prices are all double if not triple their usual rate and even his hard bargaining skills are not enough to stop himself from wincing when Ike buys new boots — for both of them — and a new cloak for Soren. Eventually they make their way to the fabric merchants, but there isn’t enough time to make new robes so Soren knows he’ll have to settle for some ill-constructed thing with too much gold and not enough lining for warmth. 

“This would look good on you,” Ike suggests, pointing out a dark blue robe with silver trim. It reminds Soren of the night sky, but not in a good way. It’s far too ostentatious for him to wear on regular occasions and if he’s going to spend his gold — because it is his, no matter who is holding it — on something then he’s going to get his use out of it. 

Soren points all this out to Ike, who shrugs and goes to look at more robes. 

For his benefit, Soren does start looking after Ike proves that he’s attracted largely to anything shiny, over the top, or otherwise impractical. Soren doesn’t really know why, since Ike hardly has that nice of taste for himself, but he doesn’t question it on fear of hearing that Mist is requiring it. If that’s the case, then Soren is well and truly doomed. 

“That looks just like your current robes,” Ike points out when Soren holds up a black robe with gold trim. It has slightly different symbols on the sleeves, ones a bit more indicative of light magic, but it is Soren’s size and seems like it would be nice enough to wear to a party, but not so nice that he couldn’t wear it around the fort. It also has a hood, which Soren considers a plus if only because it made it easier to block out unwanted sights and sounds. 

“It’s only five gold.” Soren rubs a finger along the sleeve. It’s soft, far softer than what he’d usually buy because that sort of thing is frivolous, but maybe… Well, he is supposed to treat himself. He just usually doesn’t. 

Ike’s face shifts a little and he steps closer to Soren in a way that, were it anyone else, would have warranted a wind spell to the chest. Instead, Soren casually leans against him, letting the warmth from Ike’s body seep into him. His face flushes and he steps away, glancing about to check if anyone has seen. No one would care if it weren’t Ike, if it weren’t the hero of two wars and the savior of Tellius. 

But Ike has left his sword behind and his armor is safe in the castle. Without it, and wearing a long cloak to cover most of his form, he’s just a tall man escorting his smaller friend around the city. 

“If you want it, we’ll get it,” Ike says. 

Soren swallows and nods. Ike reaches out and closes one hand around Soren’s, squeezing it slightly. Even though Soren wants to chide him, he can’t. It occurs to him that, were this any other occasion, just the two of them together would be a date. As if they were courting, still, after all this time. They may not be wed — will never be, because who would consent to officiate a ceremony between a Branded and the hero who saved the continent — but Soren knows that Ike’s heart is well and truly accounted for. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still worry, and it’s nice to have moments like this that remind him that the only person Ike has ever shown interest in happens to be him. 

“Okay. Wait here, I’ll go find the vendor.” Ike goes to leave and Soren now is the one to reach out, to grab Ike by the cloak. He hesitates only a moment, taking in the crowd, before placing a quick and chaste kiss to the side of Ike’s jaw. It’s about the only place Soren can reach without Ike bending down. 

“Thank you,” Soren murmurs. He’s not talking about the robe. 

“It’s just a robe. I’m pretty sure this is actually your gold too — Mist just handed it to me and said Mia got it for her. And no, I don’t know how they got it. But — oh.” Ike blushes. “You’re — you’re welcome, Soren. You know I enjoy your company.” 

“For some reason, yes. Now go. Let’s hurry and perhaps we can get back to the castle before your sister comes up with another inane idea.” 

#

At the party, Oscar announces that he is rejoining the Crimean Royal Knights. Three people cry. One of them is Kieran, the other is Rolf, and the third is Oscar. No one is surprised. 

Elincia does not announce an engagement or a pregnancy or that Ike has accepted a lordship. This surprises much of the nobility who does not know Elincia or Ike, and Soren has to admit a certain level of vindication from this knowledge. 

The laguz monarchs — specifically the former king of Kilvas and the current king of the bird tribe — intimidate everyone except Elincia and the other war veterans. Soren dislikes Tibarn and borderline detests Naesala, even if he understands why Naesala did what he did. 

Largely, Soren does his best to stay by Ike’s side while also ignoring all the laguz present, because he is just spiteful and hateful enough to get a rush of pleasure after walking by a laguz who wouldn’t have stopped to give him the trash in their pantry if he were fifteen years younger. Ike knows a little bit of why Soren is this way, and he knows enough that getting Soren to stop calling them sub-humans is about as good as he can do. So he doesn’t try to force Soren into small talk, but he doesn’t let Soren hide behind him when Gallia’s delegation approaches.

Soren loves Ike more than anything, but he cannot forget what he went through and no one will ever get him to try. 

“Ike! How are the mercenaries settling in?” Ranulf asks. He gets a nod of greeting from Soren, but Skirmir — who is following behind Ranulf, in a surprising twist — is ignored. Ranulf slugs Ike in the shoulder. “That’s for leaving without telling anyone.”

“We had business and we wanted to join Elincia to Crimea. It was last second,” Ike says, not sounding very apologetic. He is smiling, though, and clearly glad to see his friend again. “How was travelling back to Gallia?” 

“Slow and boring, but at least we didn’t have any of you to slow us down. Skirmir just about caused another war, though.”

Skirmir laughs and pats Ranulf on the back. Soren knows Ranulf is tougher than he looks, but he’s still surprised that something doesn’t break. 

“Aha, Ranulf jests. I simply challenged a few ugly beorc to a competition of strength. If they lost, it is their own fault.” 

“Skirmir, you broke one man’s arm and you twisted another man’s wrist. They were members of the Begnion army. I don’t think that counts—”

“They were being rude! The little empress would agree with me,” Skirmir argues. 

“It sounds like Skirmir was just showing them a bit of what the beast tribe is like,” Ike comments. He’s grinning, though, and probably would have done the same if he were there. “Is the empress here? I haven’t seen any of her pegasi guards.” 

“How should I know? We just arrived last night. There’s… been a lot to work on.” Ranulf shrugs. “But I see you avoiding my question. How are the mercenaries? Utterly heartbroken that you’re losing one of your men?” 

Now Ike shrugs. “Not really. We all knew that Oscar was going to be leaving. His brothers are old enough to be by themselves and he always did love the knights. And he’ll at least be close by, so it isn’t like we’ll never see him again.” He pauses. “I think that we’ll miss his cooking the most.” 

“What about you, little beorc? Have you gotten bored of being a mercenary yet and decided to come to Gallia and work for me?” Skirmir asks. 

Soren wonders if he could kill someone with a look. There are ancient stories about people who could, but he doubts that his magic is strong enough. That doesn’t stop him from trying. 

“I am happy to be by Ike’s side. Now that the war is over, we have reconstruction work.” He nods towards where Elincia is talking to the herons. “The Queen hired us as security.” 

“That would explain the weapons you two are carrying,” Ranulf says, as if there’s a single person here who isn’t armed or surrounded by armed guards. “You beorc always are so concerned with that. It must be so inconvenient to have to drag weapons around to formal events.” 

“It must be inconvenient to cut holes in all your pants,” Soren deadpans before he can stop himself. 

Ranulf and Skirmir laugh. Ike looks at Soren in half-shock. Not because Soren doesn’t make jokes, but because he doesn’t make jokes with laguz. Soren just gives him a half-shrug. He doesn’t like laguz, but Ranulf has fought by Ike’s side and at the very least is trustworthy. Skirmir is an idiot but he’s simple to figure out and, again, respects Ike. That’s enough, at least, for Soren to consider them better than most. 

“You have quite a sense of humor. Know that there will always be a job for you in Gallia, if you ever get bored of things here,” Skirmir repeats. 

Soren would rather cut out his own tongue and gouge out his eyes than leave Ike, so he just nods politely and lets Ike resume conversation. 

The dinner portion of the party — at least the party tonight, it’s technically a week-long celebration — is a banquet with seating arrangements. The mercenaries are spread throughout the table, technically as security but largely because Elincia — or whoever made the seating chart, the Queen probably has better things to do with her time — knows they have friends they will want to talk to. 

Mia is chatting with a few cat laguz, Shinon is trading quips with the advisors to Tibarn, and Titania seems to be holding a pleasant conversation with a few people from Daein. Soren, fortunately, has been placed next to Ike, who is only a few seats down from Elincia herself. 

That’s the good part. 

The bad part is that the other monarchs are here — the king of the bird tribe and Skirmir alongside his uncle, Micaiah and Sothe from Daein and Sanaki from Begnion. The dragons, Kurthnaga and Almedha.

Kurthnaga is excitedly catching up with Micaiah but Almedha has hardly said two words to anyone. As far as Soren is aware, she’s not technically part of the Goldoan political system, just a member of the royal family, but it would be offensive to sit her lower than her brother so she is forced to sit among people she doesn’t know. Some would have killed her, if they met her during the war. The others pity her and what she’s gone through. Soren doesn’t know which is worse. 

Pelleas, Soren notes, is farther down the table where the advisors and important nobility are sitting. Not a monarch — and that makes sense, given his rejection of the throne — but still higher than, say, disgraced fake son of a real queen. Soren wonders if there is a deal there to keep Pelleas off the streets or causing rebellion, but Pelleas never struck him as all that cunning. 

For a moment, Soren feels a rush of pleasure at knowing that he is intellectually superior to Pelleas. 

“Have you tried the deer? It’s delicious. I don’t know what they did to it, but it’s better than anything Oscar’s ever made,” Ike says, pushing a cut of meat towards Soren’s mostly full plate. 

“Venison, Ike,” Soren corrects, as if anyone here cares that Ike can’t tell the difference between the soup spoon and the salad fork on a good day. He knows Ike won’t rest until he has eaten more and takes a small bite. It is good. The sauce is warm but not clinging and there’s a hint of — something. Cloves? 

“Ike, what are the mercenaries doing, now that the war is over?” Micaiah asks, her conversation with Kurthnaga paused. 

Even though people are looking at Ike, Soren can’t help but feel uncomfortable with the attention in his proximity. Especially considering over half the table is made up of laguz — he feels his stomach twist and doubts he can eat much more without being sick. He feels like a child again, unable to talk, hoping that someone will take pity on him but not trusting anyone to give him anything other than a beating. 

“Working. There are a lot of people who were hurt during the war, even if it didn’t touch them. Fields are fallow, buildings are falling apart, bandits are taking advantage of them — life is life.” Ike shrugs, unaware that any of the royals here would gladly snap him up as a private general and pay him ten times what he can hope to make as a mercenary. If Ike asked, they’d even pay for Soren to come along with him, though Soren has also proven his worth twenty times over in a tactician’s role. 

Soren is also no slouch of a sage, but considering he doesn’t work well in groups and only has ever cared about Ike’s back, his combat prowess is a little less well known. 

“It sounds like a noble prospect,” Micaiah replies. Her smile is genuine. Soren wants to wipe it off her face. “Daein is also rebuilding after the war. If you have any suggestions—” 

“What works in Crimea may not work in Daein.” Ike shrugs. He seems — not uncomfortable with the topic, just uncertain. He doesn’t want to sign up for extra work, doesn’t want people to know that he has no intention of seeing the next year out in Tellius, but he doesn’t want to be rude either. 

Soren wonders how hard it is, really, for Ike to essentially turn his back on people who needs his help. He wonders how far Ike must be pushed for him to think the only way he will get peace is by leaving entirely. The real tragedy is that he’s right. As long as Ike is on Tellius, everyone will want to talk to him, will badger him for help and information and guidance and just to say that they’ve worked with the illustrious hero. 

“Of course,” Micaiah says, nodding. “I am glad that Crimea and Daein are restoring relations. As well as the laguz nations. A unified Tellius is a peaceful one.” 

“Hear, hear,” Tibarn says, only a slight hint of sarcasm in his words. Considering he was ready to rip Micaiah to shreds not six months ago, Soren supposes that it is positive that he can sit at the same table and be polite. 

The presence of Reyson and Leanne, who are talking with their brother and the wolf queen a little ways down, probably helps. 

“Queen Elincia and King Skirmir have both been great aids in the opening of Goldoa,” Kurthnaga mentions. The eyes turn to him and Soren breathes a little easier. “It is a slow process, for many of our citizens are hesitant, but hopefully trade will be possible within a few years.” Considering he is a dragon, a few years might as well be a few weeks. Soren is a little surprised the timeline is that fast — he would have assumed a decade at least. It’s possible Kurthnaga is speeding it up for the sake of the beorc, who do not consider a decade a short amount of time. 

Soren thinks a decade is very long. He also has no illusions that, in the grand scheme of things, it is not. Even for him. 

He doesn’t like thinking about it. 

“I’m sure it’s nicer when we’re not being chased by a murderous army,” Tibarn replies. He shoots everyone a sharp grin. Soren reconsiders his stance on Tibarn’s seeming “forgive and forget” attitude towards the war. 

Conversation shifts to less political topics after that. 

Ike isn’t the first to head out — Micaiah excuses herself and Sothe while Sanaki grows tired relatively quickly and is escorted away by her knights — but Soren is ready to throw up from stress by the time Ike decides he’s had enough to drink and eat and remembers that he has a whole week to talk with old friends. 

They walk back to their shared chamber — not assigned that way initially but Soren got a list of room assignments and demanded that he have the same room as Ike, purely for strategy purposes of course — in silence. There are others wandering to and from, enjoying the clear skies and the lack of snowfall, but it’s still a bit too cold for most people to want to just wander. 

Soren is so exhausted, nerves on edge after the fifth job offer Skirmir gave and the fact that he had to sit not ten feet away from Almedha — _mother_ , some part of him cries out — and Kurthnaga for the whole dinner. That’s the only reason he has for not noticing Pelleas ahead, talking quietly to someone Soren doesn’t immediately recognize. 

“Thank you,” Pelleas tells the man. “Please do not worry about me. She has not — I don’t think she has any interest in me, not anymore.” 

“As you wish, Pelleas,” Tauroneo replies. The two glance over as Ike and Soren approach. Soren, caught off-guard, stumbles and Ike steadies him. 

“Are you okay?” Ike asks, stopping and holding Soren’s shoulders in his hands. Soren swallows and nods, not trusting himself to speak. He wants to go back to their room and sleep, he wants to talk to Pelleas, he wants to be rid of all this and leave the continent entirely — 

But he can’t. He just can’t. 

“Sir Ike.” Tauroneo nods as he walks away, gaze lingering on Soren in a way that just makes him feel even worse. Ike doesn’t even look away from Soren, blue eyes looking over him as if he can tell what’s wrong by just a glance. 

“Are you getting sick?” Ike frowns. “If you need rest—”

Soren shakes his head. He can feel Pelleas looking at him and wants to leave. He steps back, intending to continue walking to the privacy of his and Ike’s room, but he sees Pelleas has taken position in the hallway to the room. It must be unintentional because Soren, quite honestly, cannot imagine Pelleas is so clever or spiteful as to arrange a meeting through a series of seeming coincidences, but it’s one too many for Soren to feel comfortable. 

If Pelleas is walking around, what stops Almedha from doing the same? Could she really go from room to room, searching for Soren? And if she finds him, what will she say? Will she demand a conversation? That he goes with her to Goldoa? 

Each thought it worse than the next. 

“Soren, you really don’t look good.” 

“General Ike, may I be of assistance?” Pelleas asks. 

“We’re fine,” Ike tells him without hesitation. Soren feels almost weak with relief. Ike might not know why Soren dislikes Pelleas — or assumes it is because of the war, which admittedly is a strong reason in of itself — but Ike also harbors no love for the previous king of Daein. “Thank you, but we’re fine.” 

Soren feels dizzy as Ike lets go of his shoulder and stops himself from reaching out only by a hair. He wonders if Pelleas sees, then throws that idea out the window. Pelleas’s eyes are focused on Soren’s brand. For the first time in a while, Soren is glad that someone is staring at it. 

He takes a deep breath, locks eyes with Ike, and the two walk back to their room. Ike is between Soren and Pelleas. It’s the little things that made Soren well and truly fall in love with him. 

When they get back to their room, Soren’s fingers tremble as he takes his boots off. He curses as he tugs a little too hard on his hair while he unties it and immediately Ike is there. His tunic is loose and his pants half-off, but he’s there anyway to help. Holding up his hands, Ike silently asks permission. Soren nods and turns his back to Ike so that he may untie Soren’s hair. Ike is the only person allowed to touch his hair, his rough hands uncharacteristically careful and gentle as he gets rid of tangles and sets the cords aside. 

Soren allows himself to close his eyes, to focus on his breathing. This — this is familiar. Ike, behind him. A stressful day passed with minimal death and threats. Another day ahead of them. The lack of a war and the fact that thousands of lives aren’t relying on them is really the only thing different. 

“After this is over, I’m thinking we head towards the desert. I — I talked to Nailah. She is willing to help guide us through the desert or just give us a map of places that are safe. We don’t even have to wait for the weather to get better. I don’t want to bring much and you — I figure you don’t have a lot either.” Ike is rambling. Soren doesn’t mind. He likes hearing Ike’s voice. “After that, who knows? There’s a whole world on that side that we haven’t seen. Maybe there’s a place we can — we can stay.” He hesitates. His fingers snag in Soren’s hair and Soren winces. “Sorry.” 

Ike places a gentle kiss to the back of Soren’s neck. Soren smiles and turns around, embracing him tightly. Ike seems a little surprised but he returns it, resting his chin on the top of Soren’s head. A moment passes. Soren breaks the hug first, but he doesn’t move away. Instead he stands on the tips of his toes and presses a soft kiss to Ike’s lips. 

“You know that I will always stay by your side,” he reminds Ike, as if it needs to be repeated. 

“I know.” Ike kisses his Brand. It itches, like lightning remaining after a spell. Soren is unsurprised when Ike picks him up and places him on the bed, kissing him all the while. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” Soren replies. 

Ike finishes changing into his sleepwear and Soren, who is already under the sheets, shifts just enough to make sure Ike won’t sit on him when he gets into bed. The two cuddle close, facing one another. Red eyes meet blue and Soren finds himself relaxing. 

“After this, I’m thinking a small cottage in the forest.” Ike pauses. “Maybe a few chickens. A cow. A horse so we can go into town when we need things.” His eyes are seeing something a continent away, but his arms are around Soren and he knows that he’s there too, reading a book by the fire or haggling with travelling merchants in order to get the best deal on new cloth or a new table or something. 

Ike has a small smile on his face. He hasn’t been smiling enough, Soren decides. He’s not the best at making others smile, but he’s always been good at making Ike smile and that’s good enough. 

“And what do we do in this cottage?” He asks. 

“Well, there’s a small library for you. I probably help people build things or work with animals or something, whatever they need.” Ike seems to have no problem putting himself in the position of day laborer. Most people would be scandalized to think of a general of his caliber herding goats or harvesting wheat, but Ike is a mercenary’s son. Even if he wasn’t raised on a farm, he knows how to do the work. 

“I know I enjoy reading, but I must have a job too,” Soren half-protests. Admittedly, he doesn’t mind the idea of him staying in a cottage while Ike goes and works, coming home to a warm meal and a warm bed, a roof over his head. 

No more camps in the middle of the forest. No more warzones. No more fighting anything more challenging than a half-rate bandit. 

Soren doesn’t have much to give Ike, but maybe he can give him that much. 

It’ll never happen. Soren knows that it is impossible, that people like him and Ike don’t _find_ peace. But he can hope. He never did much of that before, still doesn’t, but if anyone can convince him to hope it’s Ike. 

So he does. 

The next day, Soren talks to Almedha.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: [scatteringmyashes.](http://scatteringmyashes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
